


When It's Fine (And When It's Not)

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, Implied Drug Use, M/M, jesus what am i doing, too much fucking exposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For an entire year, Sherlock has been good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It's Fine (And When It's Not)

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking for writing inspiration and an anonymous user on my blog suggested the prompt "John's fluffy return from Afghanistan to Sherlock," which I interpreted as uni!lock, established relationship, and also make it angst instead of fluff. So, this is that.

A whole year.

For an entire year, Sherlock has been good. He’s gotten clean – a promise to John, that he’d be healthy when John got back, that he’d be in a good place – he’s avoided trouble; he _made himself a job._ Made it, conjured it up out of no-where, literally invented an entire new profession for himself. He is doing well. Really, far better than he thought he’d be.

Sherlock had been silently against John going into the military; he hadn’t voiced his opinions (much to John’s surprise, as Sherlock was hardly ever quiet when he protested to something) because he knew that joining was one of the most important aspirations John had. Had been, since he was a child, when his father had died (which Sherlock didn’t really understand; why put yourself in the same position and potentially end up with the same end? It didn’t make any sense) on one of his tours of duty.

(When he voiced this to John – the absolute wrongness of John’s reasoning – he didn’t even comment on the harshness of how he said it. John was simply surprised that Sherlock had actually listened when he was talking about it.)

Arguments had ensued, not when John first enlisted nor when he was accepted, but just before he shipped out. _I don’t want you to go_ , and _I could lose you,_ coupled with _I need to do this_ , and _You could have told me earlier_. Fights that lasted hours, and included storming out, drunken calls, and late-night make-ups. Heated shags at one in the morning. Only, of course, to be succeeded by more fighting the next day.

John made him sit down, finally – a long discussion, during most of which Sherlock attempted to get up, walk out, ignore everything John was trying to say to him – and they worked through it (painstakingly). Sherlock didn’t want to lose John, John didn’t want to lose him – only one of them was okay with John going into the military. The other was ready to lose his mind.

John promised that he would come back. No matter what, he’d come back. Sherlock knew it was a stupid thing to promise – told John just how illogical and unlikely it was that he could promise something so surely without already having previously experienced (and then John took him by the shirt front and pulled him forward until their lips met and Sherlock’s mind stuttered to a slow halt) – and he knew how high the risks of going into the military were. How easily John could slip right through his fingers, though the risks, John assured him, were so much lower as a doctor. He would be less exposed, not put in the way of harm.

It took time, but Sherlock was eventually compliant about it. Not pleased, not happy, but okay with it.

(They spent the last few days before John left in their flat with far too much takeaway to be healthy, telly on low, on the sofa, barely clothed and extremely sated.)

Of course, John made Sherlock promise a few things too. To do his best not to relapse, not to let himself get lower than he had any reason to be. Keep himself healthy. Eat regularly. There was a – err; well, a small chemical incident that resulted in his moving out of their shared flat with all their things into a new one (courtesy of a dear old friend that was still extremely fond of him, bless her), with promises to find a way to pay the rent properly until John got back and they could split it. She didn’t mind, she told him – bit too empty without any long-time tenants, none seemed to want to stick around too long, can’t seem to suss out why, oh it’s lovely to have you around again Sherlock. He was welcome, (though do pay as much of the rent as you can, dear; can’t wait to meet your boyfriend!), and Mycroft, after deciding that their childhood nanny ought to be getting paid in full, started helping Sherlock out – with the promise of stopping as soon as John was back; responsibility and such.

Mrs. Hudson was good company. She certainly enjoyed being around him – she’d occasionally go off on little tangents about what Sherlock was like as a child (as compared to how he was now – apparently, the only difference was that he’d gotten so much taller. He pouted a bit at that, then realised what she meant and decided to be an adult and actually get the shopping for himself), and she’d bring him up the tea, sometimes invite him down to hers for dinner. She happily took on the role of Sherlock’s caretaker again, and somehow convinced him to do a bit of cleaning and cooking on his own.

(That was something he never quite understood about Mrs. Hudson – she was more terrifying than he could ever comprehend, and yet still the sweetest person he’d ever met. Such a conundrum.)

What he was sure would be much to John’s chagrin – if he ever found out, which he wouldn’t for another five years (damn Lestrade and his drunken tongue for that) – he did relapse, a few times. The first time went mostly unnoticed, though he did make quite a few crashes and bangs loud enough that Mrs. Hudson was discouraged to check on him for quite some time.

(She came up the next morning to find him not on, but under the sofa, curled up and quite distressed and forcing himself to remain there lest there be other consequences. She left him some tea and picked up the flat a bit, humming loud enough to hopefully entertain Sherlock as well as herself. Take the edge off.)

The second occurrence ended with him in Scotland Yard’s custody for drug use, insulting multiple officers, and disrupting police evidence.

It also landed him a job, so he wasn’t _only_ complaining.

(He did have to call Mycroft to bail him out, though – wouldn’t ever make Mrs. Hudson do such a thing.)

Lestrade let him out with his brother the next morning, after a long conversation while he was still locked up (which, Sherlock told him, was preposterous – it wasn’t as though he’d committed a violent act, and he was patted down and searched – “No cocaine! All gone!” - Lestrade still kept him in there though. Mostly because he was an arrogant arse). He asked how Sherlock had gone about figuring out what he did (“Is it a drug thing, one of those weird little tics people get when they’re high?”), about his university degrees, about his utter uselessness if he was going to just get high all the time and put all that talent to waste.

(Sherlock neglected to mention that it was not his intention to ‘get high all the time’, but to _stop_ getting high all the time. John always told him how stupid his defiance was, but Sherlock had no problem with it.)

He was sent on his way with a business card (which he folded and used to balance a wobbly chair) and a new contact in his phone (which he deleted that evening in an ornery strop), along with a buzzing voice in his ear scolding him for stretching his absolute idiocy to a new level.

(He spent the ride back to the flat wondering how long it would take to suffocate Mycroft so that he’d pass out just long enough for Sherlock to send him to another country via the post.)

The detective inspector did instil a few ideas though, which led to a website being set up (though he was never much good with online formatting) and services being offered. He ought to do something with himself – something he could tolerate, enjoy, something that would stimulate him just as much as the drugs did. It took time before any offers came in, and the first (which made him groan and slump in his seat, nearly onto the floor) was from the same Inspector Lestrade who tossed him in a cell for a night.

And, however grudgingly it was, he accepted the offer, cleaned himself up, and showed up to a crime scene the next day with a cloud of arrogance that could have knocked the self-esteem of anyone nearby down at least three notches.

(The case was solved within three hours, which Sherlock found hilarious, though the other officers didn’t seem quite as amused. He was then herded back to Scotland Yard and forced to sit it out in Lestrade’s office – with a detective sergeant nearby keeping guard of him – while he and his team went and caught the criminal that Sherlock sussed out. He complained of unfairness and was sent home after four hours of questioning which he thought was _outrageous_ because half of it consisted of astonished _hows_ and confused looks.)

A few more cases started coming in, and after a month (now five months into John’s tour) he changed his title to Consulting Detective and called himself a perplexity.

(He wished John were there to tell him what a complete and utter aggrandising bastard he was being with a laugh and a tossed pillow, but that could wait. It would come.)

Cases didn’t always come in steadily, but they were enough to keep him stimulated and he took whatever he could to help pay rent (and spent free time harassing Mycroft for locking up his trust fund). He stopped using, though it was ridiculously difficult and involved more than one relapse, a bout of insomnia, and extreme frustration at very simple things.

(He did keep smoking, though he knew John would hate him for it. Couldn’t do it all in one go. He’d get himself to nicotine patches eventually.)

So, he has been doing well. Not pleased, not happy – he’s okay. Still just okay.

(Until he receives a call in the middle of the night from a number he doesn’t recognise, telling him that _as John Hamish Watson’s first emergency contact you are to be notified that the aforementioned is being invalided home due to a serious injury_ , after which he’s unable to sleep for the rest of the night.)

The worst part is that they hadn’t specified just how serious the injury was, or how long it would be until John was home. He was told that he would receive a call from the hospital when he was allowed to see John, and that just about killed him.

(Mrs. Hudson sits in 221B with him for at least two hours with her arm around his shoulders, while he stares numbly at everything and nothing and waits for another phone call.)

(She makes him eat because ‘you won’t be any good if you show up and you can hardly stand, dear’.)

The next call doesn’t come for another three days, and it comes while Sherlock is in the middle of a case that he’d forced himself to take for distraction. He steps away to answer the call, and as soon as the words ‘conscious and recovering’ leave (who he assumes is) John’s nurse’s mouth, he nearly collapses from relief. She tells him that he can come and visit until ICU hours are over, and when he hears dead air on the other end of the line, he pockets his phone and walks with trembling legs to his client and informs them that something important has come up, and promptly runs to find a cab as quickly as possible.

The ride feels far longer than it probably is, and he managed to get a slightly awkward cabby who alternates between staring at him and the road, and keeps trying to start up a conversation. They give up after a few minutes, which Sherlock is quietly thankful for.

(He wishes he could text John.)

(He’ll see John in ten minutes.)

(John could be in a much worse state than he is imagining.)

(Sherlock feels sick.)

(When they arrive at the hospital, Sherlock nearly forgets to pay his awkward driver and has to trip over himself like an idiot to hurry back and give them the fare.)

(In his hurry, he also elects to find the ICU on his own because, honestly, it can’t be that hard. He has to circle back twice and ends up asking where it is anyway.)

John looks more broken than Sherlock had ever hoped he’d have to see.

(He’s glad there are so many other people around – otherwise, he might have had a moment.)

It is still John; blond hair (lightened substantially by foreign sun), strong frame (a bit wracked but still sturdy), soft expression (with more frown lines, but more laugh lines as well). Sherlock approaches with a trepidatious inhale and glides up to John’s bedside silently, glad for his well-worn soles.

(John bristles at the slight disturbance to his side.)

(He smiles drowsily when he sees who’s beside him, and mumbles something that sounds like a weary apology.)

Eyeing the bandages wrapped around John’s bare shoulder and torso, Sherlock walks around to the other side of the bed and takes John’s hand in his. John manages a little squeeze, fingers wrapped lazily around Sherlock’s.

(Sherlock says he was worried.)

(John’s paper pillowcase crinkles as he nods slowly.)

(John says that it’s all fine.)

(He wouldn’t leave Sherlock behind, anyway.)


End file.
